


Messatine Rhapsody

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Beast Mode Sex, Huddling For Warmth, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:02:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Tarn brings Deathsaurus to the DJD base on Messatine.  Deathsaurus has creative ideas about how to stay warm.  And Tarn, who's spent years pining for Megatron, has to come to terms with the situation being reversed--and what that could mean for his future.
Relationships: Deathsaurus/Tarn
Comments: 88
Kudos: 223





	1. Movement the First:  White Winter

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate universe setting post-Necroworld and immediately after a battle against the Black Block Consortia.
> 
> This fic is NOT strictly in continuity with my long Tarnsaurus series "On My Dark and Lonely Side". It's just a fun little one-off.

__

**Movement the First: White Winter**

Snowflakes fell gently from the night sky, dancing on swirling breezes until they added their sparkle to the blanket of snow that embraced the Messatine landscape. Snow clouds erased the moons, blotted out the stars. The only illumination in the darkness came from the security lights mounted high along the roofline of the Decepticon Justice Division’s headquarters building. Their beams passed through the prisms of the snowflakes and fractured into rainbow-coloured points of light which glittered enigmatically on the surface below. Beneath the balcony of Tarn’s personal living quarters, everything looked clean and fresh and touched by magic, wrapped in the secrets of a winter’s night. 

It was beautiful, and Tarn wondered why it had been so long since he’d bothered to appreciate the wonder all around him. That was, until he inhaled a breath into his intakes and found himself forcibly reminded of just how bitterly cold Messatine could be. Even in the absence of howling winds and merciless hail, the temperatures had dipped dangerously low. The chill bit into the sides of his intakes, seizing machinery, making metal brittle, turning oil slow and sluggish. 

Messatine was beautiful and lethal and relentless and most of all untouchable. Tarn shivered and remembered why he rarely used this balcony. He’d added it not from any desire to linger outside, but rather because he’d built his headquarters in an architectural style that paid tribute to Cornerstone, the City of Vos’s master architect during the Golden Age, and Cornerstone had loved his balconies. 

Tarn glanced back over his shoulder and down the hallway to his private sitting room where a huge fire roared in an ornamental hearth and concealed heaters pumped warmth into his quarters. Ordinarily he spent his off-duty hours lounging in front of that hearth with a flute of fine engex and a book or two, listening to the great classical composers on his top-of-the-line stereo system. He should be there _now_ save for the fact that…. 

…well, he didn’t ordinarily entertain _guests_ at this facility. 

Particularly not in his personal quarters, and _this_ guest was not his former Lord Megatron, nor that amusing and easily flustered Autobot medic from Delphi. In all honesty, Tarn was beginning to question the wisdom of bringing Deathsaurus _here_. The DJD’s headquarters was a secret installation of sorts—everyone knew where it was, but next to nobody save Megatron and the DJD themselves had entered these halls with any expectation of coming back out again alive. It still felt wrong for an outsider to come here of his own free will. 

But with Megatron himself turned traitor, and the Warworld and its crew in need of rest and recovery after a bloody battle with the Black Block Consortia, well… 

The Warworld itself was in orbit around Hedonia, ostensibly for repairs—and Tarn had no doubt the repairs would get done to standard—but also for the crew to enjoy shore leave at the mechanical-friendly entertainment district located there. To Tarn’s surprise, the rest of the DJD had elected to stay behind on the Warworld. They were convinced that they could blend in with the rest of the Warworld’s crew and enjoy the kind of ordinary vacation they’d so often missed out on during the war. 

Tarn had almost cancelled the trip, but he’d always come home to Messatine to regroup and take stock of what was to come. Looking down the barrel of a life without Megatron, he’d found himself compelled to return, though he couldn’t say whether he’d come to pretend everything was normal or whether he’d needed the security of a familiar environment to come to terms with his new life. 

Or maybe he’d just been craving a hit of nuke. He’d used the last of the _Peaceful Tyranny_ ’s supply in the battle against the Consortia. 

Regardless, the rest of the DJD had backed out of the trip, but Deathsaurus hadn’t. Now Tarn was hosting his new ally on Messatine, all alone. Tarn wasn’t used to being alone here—of not hearing Tesarus’s games bleeping in the common room, or smelling whatever concoction Vos had brewing in his laboratory, or seeing Helex and Kaon amble past in the corridors, walking the Pet in laps around the building to avoid the need to go outside. 

And bringing Deathsaurus to Messatine indicated a level of trust that Tarn wasn’t sure he was ready for, not even with the knowledge that, in the end, he’d left Megatron behind for Deathsaurus’s sake. 

Tarn wrung his hands, looking out at the snow. He’d not expected… It was as though he’d thought Megatron’s defection would be a…a _one-time_ thing, an event split neatly into _before_ and _after_. Instead, he’d experienced it…was _still_ experiencing it _…_ as a _succession_ of events. Choosing not to kill himself out of despair. Choosing to hunt Megatron down. Recruiting Deathsaurus to help him. Running Megatron to ground on Necroworld. And deciding, after all of that, to leave Megatron to Overlord and devote _himself_ to combating the Black Block Consortia—to acting like the Decepticon Emperor he now was, rather than like the Head of the DJD that he _had been_. 

Similarly, his relationship with Deathsaurus was not a simple _yes/no_ but a cascading series of encounters, developing from a formal military alliance to an intense physical attraction to a sort of bizarre… _friendship_ might be the word, to proper courtship, and finally _this_ , whatever this was, or could be. 

Tarn wasn’t prepared to face these heavy questions tonight. He preferred to think about how he’d get down to the basement mine without letting Deathsaurus know what he was doing. Could he manage a hit of nuke small enough that Deathsaurus wouldn’t guess he was under the influence? Or perhaps a slightly larger hit that could be blamed on strong engex? Or should he content himself with a transformation binge instead? 

Bitter cold lashed his frame and Tarn braced himself against it, welcoming the sharp-toothed bite that came when discomfort crossed over into pain. He _deserved_ it. He was out here planning to sneak intoxicants in the presence of his ally and courtmate, after all, and he could damned well suffer while he did. 

Then the door slid open behind him, and Tarn realized his time to plan was already over. 

Deathsaurus stepped out onto the balcony and sniffed the night air in a surprisingly delicate motion, tilting back his head just slightly and licking his upper lip with a forked tongue. Tarn expected him to curse and flee back indoors. His alt…Tarn had no idea what the creature was called, but it reminded him of hot jungles, air thick with moisture, prodigious vegetation, and nervous herbivores scattering in fear from the predator in their midst. Tarn could imagine it now: peering through green fronds, a flash of red, a gleam of gold. A soft sound as the creature took the air. Then the leaves parting as the blue monstrosity dive-bombed down onto its prey, talons extended, beak already breathing fire… 

No, Deathsaurus should not like this cold and barren world. Yet he came to stand next to Tarn anyway, curling his talons around the balcony’s railing. He glanced over at Tarn with a sly smile playing on his lips. “I’ve gotten the berth ready,” Deathsaurus purred. “You should come in and get warm.” 

Tarn had never been warm on Messatine. The cold here bit into his frame no matter how high he cranked the heaters. Messatine reminded him, constantly, that his current body shell was at the very limit of the load his spark could bear. The numbness in his extremities and chill in his core proved, over and over, that he played a role which was more than he deserved. Yet he stayed on Messatine anyway, in the hopes that the world which had shaped Megatron would someday shape him as well. 

Deathsaurus’s suggestion was pleasant, though, and Tarn supposed he’d tortured himself enough for the moment. He let Deathsaurus take his hand and lead him indoors, down the corridor…and right past his sleeping quarters without stopping. 

Tarn glanced to his left and frowned. His berth room was undisturbed. Soft purple chamois sheets and a thick quilted tarp remained neatly pulled up over the berth, and a decorative pillow embroidered with a Decepticon insignia sat in between his sleeping pillows. He felt a sense of relief that Deathsaurus hadn’t been messing about in his private bedchamber. 

_By Unicron, he still had Megatron’s portrait on his wall, the one where Megatron’s gaze seemed to regard the individual on the berth, the one that Tarn had pretended was Megatron himself watching him as he…_

No. His intimate fantasies about Megatron, and the manner in which he’d indulged himself, were the last things he should be thinking about right now. Tarn looked at Deathsaurus and saw his crooked little smile grow as he tugged Tarn right past the bedchamber. 

“But..” Tarn said helplessly, gesturing back towards the door. 

Deathsaurus winced. “ _Really_? In _this_ cold?” 

If it was cold in the bedchamber, it was only because Tarn kept the heat turned down to a minimal level in his absence—just warm enough to keep the machinery from freezing up. Tarn looked into the main room and realized why he could feel waves of warmth. It wasn’t because Deathsaurus had figured out how to operate the heaters. It was because the fire in the hearth was an absolute inferno, and the fuel within the grate burned hotter and faster than the combustion bricks stacked neatly in a log rack to the side. Tarn wondered what Deathsaurus had found that would burn so readily and promptly decided that he was better off not knowing. 

“I have a heater,” Tarn said, amused despite himself. _Deathsaurus thought he was looking after me._ Nobody _took care of_ the Decepticon Justice Division, nobody save Nickel and now, apparently, Deathsaurus. 

Deathsaurus let go of Tarn’s hand and an expression of dismay wiped away his smile. 

There was something large on the floor in front of the fire. The furniture had been pushed back to make room. 

Tarn stepped forward, curious, and realized that Deathsaurus had built a makeshift berth next to the hearth. The slab was huge—stolen from Helex or Tesarus’s rooms, Tarn had no doubt—and neatly made with black chamois sheets and… 

Tarn’s optics goggled. Some kind of huge puffy covering, and overtop of _that_ , a blanket made of _organic hides_. It was thoroughly repulsive. Tarn could see the _hair_. 

“Where did you _get_ that?” Tarn demanded, absolutely certain that the DJD had not possessed such an item on any of his previous visits. 

“Helex told me it was cold here,” Deathsaurus said defensively. 

So he’d brought it. Tarn regarded it dubiously, not sure if he wanted to touch it. In fact, he really wasn’t inclined to sleep on the _floor_ at all. And he was on the verge of telling Deathsaurus that they would turn up the heat and sleep in his berth like _civilized_ mechanisms when he saw the hopeful expression on Deathsaurus’s face and bit his tongue. 

It really was rather sweet, the idea of Deathsaurus building this nest for him. 

“It had better be warm,” Tarn said, forcing himself to keep his tone light. 

“Oh, I’m sure I can keep you warm,” said Deathsaurus with a sly grin that made Tarn wonder whether he’d forget all about nuke and shape-changing binges in the next few moments. And really, would that be so bad? Regular interface was certainly healthier than his other vices. 

Deathsaurus drew back the coverings and Tarn slid into the berth. It actually was rather comfortable—perhaps not as soft as his own berth, but not nearly as hard as he’d feared. Deathsaurus tucked him in, and to Tarn’s relief, the foul hair blanket didn’t touch his frame through the thick layers of sheets separating him from it. He would just pretend that it wasn’t there. 

Deathsaurus circled the berth, slipped inside, and enfolded Tarn in his arms and wings. They’d been doing this long enough now that Tarn knew his way around Deathsaurus’s multiple appendages. They shifted positions, seeking a mutually comfortable configuration, and settled chest-to-chest with Tarn lying flat on his back, and Deathsaurus crouched atop him, straddling his hips. Tarn ran his hand up Deathsaurus’s side, seeking the root of his wings. Deathsaurus toyed with Tarn’s treads for a time, but his attention seemed to be elsewhere, and all too soon Tarn discovered where. 

Unbidden, Deathsaurus’s talons sought out the clasps of Tarn’s mask. Tarn felt his fuel pump skip a beat. His breath froze in his intakes. His insides clenched. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head and made an inquisitive sound that was not a word. It didn’t need to be. Tarn understood clearly what Deathsaurus wanted. 

It terrified him. 

He sat there stupidly, waiting for Deathsaurus to tear the mask away. Seconds ticked by with the two of them locked in a frozen tableau. 

Then Deathsaurus pulled his hand away. 

Tarn blinked at him stupidly. Deathsaurus sighed and rolled off of Tarn, onto his back. He laced his hands behind his head and stared at the chandelier hanging overhead. 

Megatron was gone, Megatron was _over_ , but taking off the mask was still a bridge too far. Tarn scrambled for words as he sat up in the berth. He had to explain. He had to make Deathsaurus understand that it wasn’t about Megatron. 

“I can’t show you my real face,” Tarn said desperately. 

Deathsaurus rose and turned back to him, watching him through four red optics. 

“What’s under the mask, it’s not my real face,” Tarn stammered. 

The Warworld commander tilted his head in silent inquiry. 

“Do you know what empurata is?” Tarn wished he knew why he still felt so _ashamed_ , even these four million years later, even when he understood in a logical sense that there was nothing he could have done to stay the Senate’s hand once they’d declared him a troublemaker by virtue of his being born with a talent he’d never asked for and didn’t know how to control. 

Deathsaurus gave him a silent nod, and then, a flash of understanding. Tarn could read it in those ruby eyes the moment Deathsaurus drew the connection. 

“Megatron gave me a new face. A new body. Under the mask…it’s not the real me. It’s just another…just another fabrication.” 

Deathsaurus’s lip quirked. “Then if your face is merely another mask, why don’t we go with the one that’s nicer to kiss?” 

Right. Deathsaurus had been quite forward about the kissing as of late. He usually ended up bleeding energon from his tongue after cutting himself on the lip of the mask, and though it didn’t deter him for long, Tarn had wondered late at night how it would feel to kiss his courtmate without the mask in between them. To feel Deathsaurus’s lips, not just his tongue, on his mouth. It made him shiver with possibility, particularly because he knew that he possessed the ability to make the fantasy a reality, just as he knew that he would never use that ability. 

Until… 

_By the Empire_ , he wanted those fantasies to be real. He wanted them so badly that he could almost _taste_ Deathsaurus’s kiss. But he could never bear Deathsaurus’s pity, or worse, his revulsion. 

Tarn stammered for an excuse. “You know I look like Megatron.” 

Deathsaurus startled and leaned in closer, as though trying to peer around the edges of the mask’s optic holes. “Megatron rebuilt you to _look like him_?” 

“Not quite that handsome,” Tarn grumbled. “Similarities, that’s all. It’s the planes of the face, the optic colour, that sort of thing. _Just enough_ for people to notice it. _Not enough_ to outshine him.” 

“Huh.” Deathsaurus seemed genuinely curious. “I never thought of Megatron as that kind of an egotist.” 

“I think it was a way to make sure I would always be the shadow to his light.” 

Deathsaurus’s optics flickered with recognition. “Tied to him even without the mask on. Always in his image. Never your own person.” Deathsaurus’s lip curled, flashing a hint of fang, though Tarn didn’t seem to be the intended recipient of the aggressive gesture. “A collar by any other name.” 

“I hardly complained at the time,” Tarn said defensively, and then felt shocked at himself. 

_Still driven to protect Megatron. Even now_ . 

“You didn’t fix that battle damage,” Deathsaurus said abruptly, his gaze fixated on the left hole of Tarn’s mask, and the small glimpse of metal underneath. 

Tarn felt self-conscious and raised his hand to hide the raw circuitry. “You’re only just noticing that?” 

“I thought it was a mark of honour.” Deathsaurus’s wings twitched. “But you don’t think of battle scars the way my crew does, do you? You paint over your welds. You present an image of being untouched. _Untouchable_.” 

“And you look like you’ve been a few rounds in a gladiatorial pit on the best of days. What of it?”

“It’s not like you.” Deathsaurus kept staring at the spot. “The one scar you didn’t fix.” 

“Megatron inflicted it. I deserved it. And I don’t need to show it to _you_.” 

Tarn expected—actually _wanted_ —Deathsaurus to pick an argument that _no_ , he _hadn’t_ deserved it, because that would’ve changed the subject, but Deathsaurus was playing another game entirely. “Not if you don’t want me to kiss you,” Deathsaurus said mock-agreeably. 

Tarn’s jaw dropped. “Are you still on about that?” 

“Fine. Tell me you don’t want to kiss me and I’ll drop the subject. Tell me _honestly_.” 

“You _know_ I can’t…” 

“Then let’s _get on with it_. Unless you can think of any _more_ stories to scare me away.” He flared his wings as though he could physically fight whatever demons lived in Tarn’s psyche. “But be advised I don’t scare easily.” 

Tarn sighed. He felt torn between two building impulses growing relentlessly inside him. One, to reiterate yet again that the mask did not come off. The other, the rising belief that if he was going to trust Deathsaurus, if _they were going to do this_ , then he had already held back more than long enough. The pressure, Tarn knew, would soon become unbearable. 

And even if he picked the first option tonight, he would come to this crossroads again tomorrow. The day after. The day after that. Every day, for the rest of his life, justifying to Deathsaurus and to himself why the mask was more than he could bear to surrender. 

It was no way to live, so before he could think better of it, Tarn reached up and tore the mask off himself. He would not be a…a slave to fear. If Deathsaurus was going to reject him for what he saw…well, at least Tarn would _know_. 

But lifting his optics to Deathsaurus’s was still the second hardest thing Tarn had ever done. Almost as hard as walking away on Necroworld and leaving Megatron behind him. 

_I await your judgment._

Deathsaurus was staring at him, absolutely gaping, all four optics as round as saucers and his mouth sagging open stupidly in an expression that would have been incredibly comical were it not for the implications of what that expression might mean. Tarn could not inquire; could not hasten the final verdict. 

Then Deathsaurus found his tongue and spoke a single incredulous word: 

_“Damus_ ?” 


	2. Movement the Second: Red Ribbon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, we're all in quarantine. Have some isolated Tarnsaurus.
> 
> *

**Movement the Second: Red Ribbon**

Tarn could not believe his audios. That name… It had been two million years since he’d used that name, and it hadn’t been used all that often before by people who preferred to call him _Glitch_. In fact, he’d only been known by his original name during two brief time periods in his life: first, when he was still new, and everyone had yet to discover the hideous gift he’d been given by some random twist of fate; and second, at a time when _Tarn_ was not yet a codename and nobody would dare use the name _Glitch_ for their Lord, the… 

“Commandant of Grindcore,” Deathsaurus said excitedly. 

Tarn stared stupidly at Deathsaurus, realizing too late that he could no longer count on the mask to conceal his feelings. 

“It’s you, right?” Deathsaurus asked, as though he were only just beginning to have doubts. 

Tarn watched in utter bafflement as the other corner of Deathsaurus’s mouth curved to join the first. Over the past few months, Tarn had gotten accustomed to Deathsaurus’s crooked smile. He’d even learned to distinguish when the Warworld commander was being snide and when he was trying to be self-deprecating about genuine happiness. Tarn had never imagined that Deathsaurus might have such a big and bright and hopeful and sincere smile in his repertoire. It made the Warworld commander look impossibly innocent. 

“Aren’t you a little young to remember that?” Tarn asked carefully. He feared that Deathsaurus was mocking him, setting him up for a joke, but those feelings had become easier to ignore because for all that Deathsaurus was cunning and playful and a little snarky, he’d never been casually cruel, not to Tarn. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head and his smile slipped. “What, don’t you remember me?” 

The statement didn’t make sense. Tarn wracked his brains. Deathsaurus was a MTO – one of the Super MTOs, the experimental soldiers laced with _sentio metallico_ in an attempt to make a knock-off mimic the natural evolution of a forged mechanism rather than the soulless assembly-line gloving of spliced sparks in hollow bodies. At least, Thunderwing had told Tarn that the sparks were spliced, but he had also shuffled his foot when he did so. Now, a lifetime of interrogations later, Tarn had learned the art of sniffing out a liar. Wherever the sparks had come from, they’d arrived in Thunderwing’s lab frozen inside a huge canister, and Tarn—Damus—had seen them put into custom bodies. 

He’d had only a few such visits. He’d insisted on making them because…well, he hadn’t been head of the DJD then. There had _been_ no DJD. By the time he’d become Commandant of Grindcore, Megatron had only just started to notice that the Cause was beginning to falter due to the actions of certain _less devoted_ members. 

Running a prison had been a filthy and thankless job, there was no doubt about that, and exposure to the prison population would harden _anyone_ , but Grindcore became unique once Thunderwing received approval for his Super MTO experiment. _Sentio metallico_ could not simply be mined. Most of the hotspots had cooled; there was precious little to gather. The rest of the material that Thunderwing needed had to be harvested from the pre-existing population. 

Everything Tarn knew about _desensitization_ —how to watch, then participate in, and finally to think nothing of participating in, the worst horrors a Cybertronian mind could conceive of—he’d learned in Grindcore. 

But at the time he was not yet the hardened executioner he would become. Commandant Damus was still innocent enough that he did his day’s work and then woke up from recharge screaming. He’d only just adopted the mask to hide his revulsion, even tears, as he practiced using his terrible gift on selected prisoners. And he’d been driven to visit Thunderwing in his lab because he’d know that the only way he would ever come to terms with smelting people alive in the so-called “teleport chamber” was to see, with his own eyes, the proof that he was doing essential work for the good of the Cause. 

But Tarn still could not tell what any of that had to do with Deathsaurus. He spread his hands helplessly. Deathsaurus’s expression become one of dismay, but only for an instant. Then the Warworld commander abruptly slid out of the berth and changed shape. 

Deathsaurus climbed up on the berth on all fours and leered at Tarn with a very humanoid smirk on his avian beak. “Here, does this help?” 

A recollection stirred in the back of Tarn’s mind. 

Right before he’d started wearing the mask full-time, Commandant Damus had attended the official release of the first Super MTOs. Thunderwing had gone all out, hosting a gala event for Decepticon commanders, and even a street party for the rank-and-file. Damus had consumed far too much…oh, what had Thunderwing served? Jellied fuel in little disposable glasses that contained a wide variety of colours and flavours…and fuel enhancers. Thunderwing’s territory was rather infamous for legalizing a number of substances banned across the rest of Cybertron, and Commandant Damus had not been all that particularly good about showing restraint in the face of temptation. Tarn was certain he had still been under the influence of one or perhaps several of these substances the day after, when he’d visited the laboratory. He wondered how reliable his memory files would be. 

Oh, these memories were old. Tarn had not accessed these memory files in a long time. It had been enough for him to keep them as proof that yes, what he was doing at Grindcore was necessary. No, there was no other way to supply _sentio metallico_ as cheaply or as efficiently. He knew that, he knew he could prove it; so he hadn’t needed to watch it. 

Besides, there had been that embarrassing incident with the lab’s central power plant that he would rather forget. 

Deathsaurus tilted his head, mistaking Tarn’s silence for disapproval. “Right. You don’t like this form.” 

He changed back, but Tarn felt embarrassed. It wasn’t _fair_ that he didn’t like Deathsaurus’s alt mode. He was a crusader for a Cause that stated all mechanisms were equal, no matter whether they were born or built, and no matter if they turned into cars, planes, industrial vehicles, equipment, or…or beasts. How could he uphold the Cause and still cringe at Deathsaurus’s alt? 

How could he take a mech as his courtmate and then say he only wanted _half_ of him? 

Tarn imagined how _he_ would feel if Deathsaurus made a disgusted face every time he saw him in tank mode. The answer was easy: he’d feel loathsome, unlovable, hurt, angry. How had Deathsaurus put up with him so long? 

Blaming his tastes and prejudices on his Vosian upbringing was no excuse for hypocrisy. This was Tarn’s problem, not Deathsaurus’s. If Tarn wanted this relationship to have any future whatsoever, he had to _get over it_. 

“Will you change back?” Tarn asked with a tremor in his voice. Oh, he wasn’t used to _requesting_ instead of _ordering_. 

Deathsaurus cocked an optic ridge, but then he peered closely at Tarn’s face. Tarn felt his faceplates heat. His feelings were an open book now, written on his face for everyone to see. 

But Deathsaurus evidently approved of what he saw, because he transformed into his animal form and then stood on all fours, waiting for Tarn to indicated what happened next. 

Tarn lifted up a corner of the blankets. 

Deathsaurus cocked an optic ridge again. The expression was very similar, no matter what mode Deathsaurus was in. 

Deathsaurus climbed back into the makeshift berth. He almost settled next to Tarn, except that Tarn urged him to lie atop him, the way they’d been before. 

“Are you sure?” Deathsaurus murmured as he eased his frame on top of Tarn, a hind leg against each side of Tarn’s hips, a foreleg tucked against each side of Tarn’s body. 

“Yes,” Tarn said, and he meant it. “This form is as much _you_ as the other. It’s time I got used to it.” 

Deathsaurus seemed satisfied. Carefully, Tarn ran his hands along both sides of the creature’s body. He scratched lightly under the roots of the animal’s wings and was rewarded by a deep, rumbling purr from the creature’s—Deathsaurus’s—chest. Apparently Deathsaurus liked this kind of touch in both modes. Deathsaurus licked at Tarn’s treads with a forked tongue and Tarn felt his frame begin to relax. 

_Not an animal. Just your mate in another shape._

A mate who seemed to recognize him from long, long ago. Tarn dimmed his optics and let his hands move of their own accord as he accessed the memory files of his long-ago visit to Thunderwing’s lab. 

“That’s where we keep the prototypes,” his guide had said. Who had been his guide? Tarn didn’t remember. The mech was only a fuzzy shadow in his recollections. Even the lab was vague. Tarn recalled seeing equipment, but not knowing what it was for. Seeing other scientists, but not knowing what they were doing. Walking past closed doors, but not knowing what was inside. 

_Inside_ . 

One of those closed doors had been on the outside of a containment unit. The unit had been lit up, obviously active, and there had been noises coming from within. Tarn didn’t recall what, exactly, had drawn his attention to the small viewing portal on the door of the unit. But he’d looked inside the containment unit—a cell, really—and seen… 

What had he seen? 

His memory of the technician was like looking through fog. His memory of what was in the cell was like looking at a mirror that had been smashed against the floor. Shards. Fragments. Pieces. 

Golden claws. 

Whistling like the lashing of a whip. A tail-tip slicing through the darkness. 

Flash of fang. 

Low growling. 

Flap of wings. 

An inferno of defiant hatred smouldering in a ruby optic. 

The others were dead. Tarn remembered those golden talons clenching a shattered shoulder; that sharp beak probing a disembodied head. Corpses littered the floor, each one ripped to pieces. 

Tarn’s memory file fuzzed with the static of corruption. He recalled asking a question, but he could not retrieve the question itself, only the gesture and the sense of inquiry. 

“That’s just garbage in there,” the technician had replied, and Commandant Damus had turned to him and informed him that the _garbage_ was alive. 

Prototypes. _Discarded_ prototypes. The union of _sentio metallico_ to pre-fabricated frame had not gone smoothly. The _sentio metallico_ , the technician stammered, had been inclined to grow out of control. Sometimes it modified the intended alt mode: cars into haulers, planes into space shuttles. Sometimes the modifications were worse, churning out vehicles so hybridized that they were unusable: cycles with massive drill bits attached, tanks with wings and skis. Robot modes so twisted that they were unviable. _Monsters_. 

The technician assured Damus that the problem had been fixed by lacing the _sentio metallico_ with nanobots to ensure that it would not attempt to grow the bodyshell in directions contrary to its intended purpose. These mistakes would not happen again. The cell had been the best place to store the dying prototypes, to keep them out of the way. 

But one had pulled through. One had survived. And it evidently continued to survive by feeding on its fallen comrades. 

Damus remembered motion in the dark. Two ruby optics pinned him with a fearless gaze. The growling went silent. 

“This one seems viable,” Damus had said. 

“I don’t even know what that’s _supposed to be_. Nobody here’s seen anything like it. It…it _grew_ that way, and it _keeps_ growing. Wasn’t what the designers were going for, is all I’ll say.” 

“Is he intelligent?” 

“It won’t talk and it won’t transform and it sure as hell won’t do what it’s told.” 

“So he’s stupid.” 

“Or it’s messing with us,” the technician said sourly. 

Why could Tarn remember the distinctive bite marks on the technican’s shoulder, but not the mech’s face, not his name? 

“Perhaps he’s simply broken,” his past self had suggested. “Broken or _incomplete_.” 

“I’m done trying to get near it. So is Thunderwing.” 

“You’ll turn him loose on the Autobots, I presume? Let him wreak some havoc in their ranks?” Damus had thought that was the most efficient way to get value from an untameable beast: permit it to damage the enemy as much as it could before the Autobots did the work of putting it down. 

“Let it out? Not a chance. Look at this wound.” The aggrieved technician pointed to his shoulder. “Thunderwing says to leave it in there until it starves itself into stasis lock and then smelt it down for raw materials.” 

Which, at the time, had seemed like a sensible plan for dealing with a monster. Tarn replayed the memory file with a rising horror he hadn’t felt at the time. Commandant Damus had been too busy trying to hide the fact that he still felt woozy from excessive overconsumption the night before and his control of his talent was suffering as a result. At that point in his life, distraction or weakness could make his grip on his abilities slip. 

And that was precisely what happened when the Commandant nodded to his host, turned away a little too quickly, lost his balance, and caught himself by planting his palm firmly on a nearby control console. 

The other mech hadn’t suspected anything. Commandant Damus had been grateful for his mask as a pulse of power ran from his hand into the machinery and an equal jolt of pain lanced him square in the spark. 

He’d ruined the console, of course, and taken down the central power plant along with it. There had been a few moments of total darkness until the backup generator came on. 

Damus had stammered a farewell on the pretext that he wouldn’t oblige the technicians to humour him when they clearly had urgent work to do. He’d made a hasty exit, hopefully before anyone thought to question how a simple touch could have caused a system crash, or notice the expression on his face. Tarn realized now that this incident was a contributing factor to his decision to wear his mask permanently and not just when he was dealing with prisoners. 

Commandant Damus, at the time, had felt ashamed of himself and embarrassed by the accident and desperately afraid that someone would guess that Megatron’s trusted associate, the formidable Commandant of Grindcore, was in fact an awkward freak who couldn’t be trusted with delicate equipment. 

_Tarn_ , on the other hand, now looked into the all-too-intelligent eyes of the monster in question and realized, with a sinking feeling, that there was no way he could tell Deathsaurus that the accident that had set him free had been a _mistake_. 

Was _this_ what the other end of hero-worship felt like? This oppressive, suffocating feeling of having another’s hopes and dreams and welfare pinned to you, like a chain around your throat? The unwanted responsibility of another person’s entire being? The knowledge that if you slipped even a notch, if you faltered for even a step, the whole illusion would collapse and the foundation would crumble beneath first their feet and then yours as they dragged you down when they fell? No _wonder_ Megatron had loathed it. No _wonder_ Megatron had held Tarn at a distance. 

How was he supposed to deal with Deathsaurus now? 


	3. Movement the Third: Blue Blaze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support for this fic! It's lovely to see so many Tarnsaurus fans!!

Deathsaurus chuckled, and Tarn watched the familiar crooked smile spread across the creature’s beak. “Don’t worry,” Deathsaurus said lightly. “I know it was an accident.” 

Tarn gaped, incredulous. “I…you…” 

He _knew_? 

“An accident that had a very good outcome for me,” Deathsaurus murmured. 

“So…you’re _not_ angry?” Tarn stammered. He felt irrationally guilty that he hadn’t tried to help Deathsaurus. He should have demanded that Thunderwing give their unexpected creation a chance. 

“I wasn’t particularly well-mannered,” Deathsaurus said slyly. “I didn’t help my own case.” 

“But you’re still happy to see me. Happy it’s me. Damus. Under the mask.” 

Deathsaurus shrugged. In his alt mode, the motion made his whole body ripple. “I did what you suggested,” Deathsaurus said surprisingly. “Went to wreak havoc in the Autobot ranks, I mean. I broke out during the power failure and found my way to the front lines.” 

“How come?” Tarn asked. 

Deathsaurus shrugged again. “What else was I to do? You’d made a suggestion that made sense. Given me a…how would you put it? A purpose in life.” He touched the gold Decepticon logo on Tarn’s chest with a single talon. “A sense that this badge was for me as well.” 

“I despair of you,” Tarn murmured, though he didn’t, not really. He dared to reach up and touch Deathsaurus’s cheek. “Such favouritism for suggestions over orders.” 

Deathsaurus chuckled. “I’m afraid so.” He licked at Tarn’s hand and then pressed his cheek into the palm. “And there’s one other consideration.” 

“What’s that?” 

Deathsaurus dipped his beak to Tarn’s left audio. “Do you want to hear an embarrassing secret?” 

Tarn had no idea what Deathsaurus would consider _embarrassing_. The Warworld commander often seemed utterly without shame. Tarn thrilled at the idea of hearing Deathsaurus confess a secret, after having had Deathsaurus make _him_ feel embarrassed so many times. 

“Yes,” Tarn said. 

Deathsaurus drew back his head and chuckled. “I’m going to defend myself with a reminder that I was very new, and y _ou_ were the only person who had shown me any respect whatsoever.” 

“Respect.” Tarn felt ashamed he hadn’t done more, and Deathsaurus had considered his pathetic inquiries to be _respect_? 

“You were the first person who called me _he_ and not _it_ ,” Deathsaurus said. “Which is perhaps not the worst reason for a newly built mechanism to develop a _ridiculous_ crush.” 

A few moments passed before the implications of that statement sank in. Tarn had only just started to parse the realization that Deathsaurus had been having romantic, even sexual, thoughts about him long before he even knew the other mech’s _name_ , when Deathsaurus leaned down and kissed him, very gently, on the lips. 

His beak was firm and, because of its shape, only impacted the very middle of Tarn’s mouth. Tarn raised his head to better fit his lips around the beak and, yes, that was better. It felt a little strange, yes, but so much about Deathsaurus was _a little strange_ and Tarn was growing accustomed to it. 

It was easy to grow accustomed when Tarn’s lips tingled from the contact and Deathsaurus’s tongue brushed sweetly over Tarn’s with no mask in the way. 

Tarn tried to return the favour—to slide his tongue against Deathsaurus’s—and Deathsaurus pulled back. “Mind the teeth,” he whispered huskily, and then leaned in to kiss again. 

Ah. So Deathsaurus’s withdrawal had been out of concern for Tarn’s comfort, not out of any kind of dissatisfaction. Tarn moved his tongue much more carefully and the kiss slowly deepened. 

He had no reason to feel odd. This was his _mate_. His mate who’d just admitted to nursing a long-lived crush on him. It made him feel giddy to think that Deathsaurus was even more excited by _Damus_ than by _Tarn_. 

Such a shame, that Commandant Damus had been sleeping alone in a narrow berth in Grindcore’s officer’s quarters, touching himself and dreaming of Megatron, while out in some narrow ditch on the battlefield, Deathsaurus had been exploring his new frame and thinking of _him_. 

That was definitely a thought to ponder on while he kissed his magnificent mate. Deathsaurus, innocent and new, running his hands over his body and learning how it worked. Wrapping his hand around his spike, experimenting, learning how tightly to squeeze, how quickly to stroke. Opening his valve guard, running his talons around the plush lips, gasping when he first touched his own anterior node. 

Imagining that it was _Damus_ sliding his fingers between Deathsaurus’s valve lips and gently pulling them open. Pretending that it was Damus’s spike, and not Deathsaurus’s finger, first breaching the factory-fresh valve. Discovering his internal nodes, lightly tickling them with his talons, and overloading with a sudden gasp, crying out Damus’s name… 

The very thought made Tarn’s engines run hot. He clamped his vents closed and then opened them just a touch. With Deathsaurus right on top of him, he’d have to let the heat dissipate slowly if he didn’t want Deathsaurus to notice. 

The moisture pooling in his valve…Tarn would just have to ignore that. 

Tarn realized that he must have been scratching the base of Deathsaurus’s wings for a long time, and that the area would soon become desensitized, if it wasn’t already. Tarn moved his hands forward, tracing the underside of the wings until his fingers curved around the leading edges. He moved his hands outward as far as his arms would go, then inward to firmly grasp the wing root. 

Deathsaurus drew back and hissed. Tarn froze. 

Deathsaurus chuckled, leaned close and murmured, “I should tell you that the _rear_ wing root feels _comforting_ , but the _forward_ wing root feels…shall we say… _exciting_.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Tarn responded, wondering if his face betrayed the fact that he was feeling a little _excited_ himself. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“Not necessarily,” Deathsaurus said, squinting his optics in pleasure. “I just wanted you to be _informed_.” 

Tarn moved his hands very slowly, massaging Deathsaurus’s forward wing root. Deathsaurus sighed, a moan that turned into some kind of animal noise of pleasure. Tarn made an informed decision that there was nothing wrong with a mech pleasuring his mate. Particularly not when said mech was already running hot himself. 

Something nagged at the back of Tarn’s mind, and Tarn dismissed it firmly. He was not interested in irrational feelings of guilt for fragging Deathsaurus and not Megatron here in his Messatine stronghold. 

Tarn felt Deathsaurus’s belly growing hot against his chest. Warning lights flashed amber in the corners of his vision, reminding him that his own frame was running too hot. Tarn opened his vents. What was the point of hiding his arousal now? 

Deathsaurus appeared to like the blast of hot air against his body. He reached down and licked Tarn’s cheek with great enthusiasm. 

It tickled. Tarn laughed. 

Laughed _hard_ , laughed like he hadn’t laughed in longer than he could remember, and Deathsaurus squinted in delight to watch his lover’s pleasure. 

Oh, this was _fun_. Tarn was well accustomed to chasing pleasure but far less familiar with play for its own sake. He grinned and decided to take it upon himself to thoroughly torment Deathsaurus. Tarn made his touch whisper-light and traced the leading edges of Deathsaurus’s wings, causing Deathsaurus to make a keening noise and lean forward in pursuit of stronger stimulation. Tarn denied him, scraping his claws down the undersides of Deathsaurus’s wings and then raking them up Deathsaurus’s sides. Deathsaurus nudged Tarn’s neck with the horn on the tip of his beak, clearly asking for more. Tarn responded by drawing lazy circles up the middle of Deathsaurus’s back. 

He took his sweet time getting to the place he knew Deathsaurus wanted him to go. He made sure to trace wide arcs around the area until Deathsaurus whimpered. Finally he relented and rubbed that sweet spot at the forward wing root, and he chuckled when he heard the loud click of Deathsaurus’s panels snapping open. 

That is, until an instant later when Tarn’s own panel snapped open. His _valve_ panel. 

Tarn was embarrassed for all of a minute and then he remembered that Rim society considered mechs who used their valves to be the dominant members of their partnerships. Really, it was the best of both worlds. Tarn wouldn’t look weak in front of Deathsaurus and he could still indulge the kind of fantasies that had been flitting through his mind ever since Deathsaurus first settled on top of him. There was just something about being pinned under a hungry-eyed warlord that made Tarn want to open his valve panel and spread his thighs and _surrender_. 

Tarn probably ought not be so squeamish about sharing his fantasies with his mate. They were supposed to _trust_ one another. He would have to work on being more open, and he would, but when Tarn felt something firm against his inner thigh he decided that he would work on it _tomorrow_. He was not going to interrupt Deathsaurus to have a conversation now, not when… 

Tarn gasped as he felt a soft brush against his anterior node. 

Deathsaurus chuckled. Tarn looked up. The Warworld commander’s beak gaped in a slavering sort of grin. Whatever he’d done, he did it again. His spike gently nudged the back of Tarn’s node, shifting the gold ring that pierced it, setting Tarn’s nerve relays on fire. 

“You’re beautiful,” Deathsaurus whispered, his soft words so at odds with his savage animal face. “You’re so beautiful in pleasure…” 

Tarn’s lips moved, and Tarn himself did not know if he was going to deny those words or ask for more, but Deathsaurus’s next thrust brought a kiss of moisture against his node and Tarn lost his ability to speak. 

This was definitely not the time for words. This was the time for exquisite feeling…revelling in the sensations as Deathsaurus settled into a regular rhythm that rubbed Tarn’s node ever more firmly, gathering the lubricant from the back of his valve and spreading it all over the lips, right up to the anterior node, all the while teasing him with the firmness of his spike and the tantalizing promise of interface...and knowing that Deathsaurus found him beautiful. 

Then Tarn realized what that little something nagging at his mind earlier must have been. 

Deathsaurus was in his _alt mode_. Both of their panels were open and that lovely pressure against Tarn’s node…that wasn’t the spike that Tarn was accustomed to fragging. 

This foreplay felt great, but if he didn’t say something soon, he’d end up facing with Deathsaurus while his lover was still in his creature mode. 

Tarn opened his mouth and almost immediately shut it again. 

_This is Deathsaurus too_ . 

_Not an animal. Not a thing. My mate_ . 

There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with it if they _did_ interface like this. 

But just when Tarn thought he’d finally found the courage to give it a go, Deathsaurus abruptly jerked away. 


	4. Movement the Fourth:  Violet Victory

**Movement the Fourth: Violet Victory**

“Deathsaurus?” Tarn asked quickly. “Is something wrong?”

Deathsaurus flared his wings, causing a rush of cold air to invade the blankets and chill their rapidly heating frames. “If we keep doing this,” Deathsaurus panted, “we’ll end up interfacing before we know it.”

It wasn’t like Deathsaurus to play coy. “Is that a problem?”

Deathsaurus’s optics widened. “Don’t you, ah, want me to change shape first?”

Tarn bit his lower lip. “Is there, ah… Help me make an _informed_ decision. Tell me what happens if you don’t.”

“Oh.” Deathsaurus looked shocked. Tarn felt a secret pleasure that chased away some of his trepidation. It was rare he got to turn the tables on his mate. “Well,” Deathsaurus said carefully, “my spike would feel a bit different in this mode.”

Tarn’s trepidation returned. “Is it larger?” Deathsaurus’s spike was already plenty big in robot mode. Bigger than Megatron’s. Tarn didn’t mind, because Deathsaurus was always enthusiastic about plenty of foreplay to help Tarn take it comfortably. But… _bigger yet?_ Tarn wasn’t sure if he could handle that. 

“No,” Deathsaurus said, and then reconsidered. “Maybe. But no bigger than you can handle. I promise.”

That seemed like an odd thing to promise, especially if it was bigger, but Tarn realized that he was craving his mate, craving him the way he craved transformation binges and nuke. He’d actually forgotten about the nuke. He wanted _Deathsaurus_ , and he wanted him _now,_ before he overthought and started getting squeamish about alt modes and spike sizes. 

_You’re supposed to trust him_. It was too late to take back his relief at getting to use his valve without having to confess his fantasies, but it wasn’t too late to show some trust in his partner now.

“Come on, then,” Tarn whispered. 

Deathsaurus returned, quite enthusiastically. Tarn felt the now-familiar delicious pressure against his wet and slippery node and moaned with appreciation. He rocked his hips and let Deathsaurus’s spike slide around against his moist valve. He could only imagine what the firm spike looked like, rubbing between his valve lips…

He couldn’t actually _see_ it, not with Deathsaurus lying chest-to-chest on top of him. Maybe that was a good thing. Tarn dimmed his optics and breathed in his mate’s scent, which was the same in both modes. He found the familiar fragrance to be both exciting and comforting.

“Hey,” Deathsaurus rasped, his voice low and husky. “What name should I scream when I overload?”

Tarn’s engine revved as he realized the possibility of a previously impossible dream.

“You can…” His infamous voice faltered. When he spoke again, his words were rough and uneven. “You can call me Damus.”

“Damus,” Deathsaurus purred, and followed it up with a deep kiss.

Deathsaurus did not seem in any hurry to get to the fragging part. They kissed long and slow, occasionally coming up for air. Deathsaurus’s claws kneaded Tarn’s tank tracks and Tarn’s fingers danced over Deathsaurus’s wings. Deathsaurus’s spike slid tantalizingly through Tarn’s wet valve and generously spread moisture over his swollen node.

Tarn was not even aware when the actual interfacing began.

At some point, the tip of Deathsaurus’s spike crossed the line between teasing at Tarn’s entrance and actually coming inside. Tarn was so aroused by then that his valve lips had swollen and parted of their own accord. He only realized he was interfacing when he clamped down on his calipers and met resistance.

Tarn’s immediate thought was that he wanted more. He looked up at the bestial face of his lover and whispered, “I’m sure you can give me more than that.”

Deathsaurus grinned and shifted his hips teasingly. Tarn felt a sharp word spring to his lips, but he bit it down, not wanting to scold his mate. A second later he realized that Deathsaurus wasn’t tormenting him on purpose. He’d been getting into position.

Deathsaurus thrust, and Tarn welcomed him.

Tarn tilted his hips and did his best to encourage Deathsaurus to sink his spike as deeply as possible into Tarn’s waiting valve. It was hard from his position pinned under Deathsaurus’s bulk, but fortunately the mattress beneath him was soft enough to give him a little leverage. The next thing he knew, the jack at the tip of Deathsaurus’s spike clicked firmly into the port inside Tarn’s valve.

…Was that all?

Tarn’s calipers fluttered madly, seeking to clutch Deathsaurus’s spike.

Deathsaurus’s alt mode’s spike was significantly thinner than his robot mode’s. _Huh_. Tarn had always thought that being fragged by Deathsaurus’s alt would feel a bit degrading and a bit painful and perversely arousing because of it. This was…well, this was nothing, really, and along with Tarn’s relief he felt a tiny bit of disappointment.

Then he felt something else.

An unexpected pressure against a very sensitive node deep inside his valve. Tarn moaned and shifted, trying to press the side of his valve against Deathsaurus’s narrow spike. Even as he did so, another node cluster set a bloom of pleasure racing through his systems, this time from the other side of his valve.

“What’s happening?” Tarn panted through a rising haze of lust.

“Oh.” Deathsaurus’s voice was hoarse, and his own optics were glazed with desire. “My spike is expanding to fill you.”

“It’s getting bigger?” Tarn demanded. “Inside me?”

Deathsaurus nodded. “That’s how it works in this mode.”

Tarn gulped. “How big is it going to get?”

“As big as it takes to comfortably fill your valve,” Deathsaurus purred. “And no bigger. It won’t hurt.”

_As big as…_ Tarn had never heard of a spike expanding _after_ jacking in. It was bizarre, bestial, freakish…and strangely arousing to think that Deathsaurus’s spike would grow to precisely the perfect size.

_Well, he’s always been a little strange._ Tarn couldn’t help himself. He laughed at the thought.

And Deathsaurus wasn’t in the least offended. The Warworld commander’s smile was broad and proud and then they were kissing, kissing while they made love, while Deathsaurus’s spike gently expanded until he filled Tarn perfectly, stretching out his valve just enough to feel good, bringing him to slow overload time and time again, and Tarn realized with surprise that for the first time he could remember, he felt no thirst for pain.

*

Tarn lay awake for a long time afterwards, staring at the ornate chandelier hanging from the ceiling of his quarters, while Deathsaurus breathed softly against his cheek and the fire burned low in the hearth.

Deathsaurus had converted to robot mode of his own choice when they were done, and they had kissed, long, lingering kisses of mutual affection and respect. Tarn had grown to appreciate Deathsaurus’s insistence on afterplay. It was a constant reassurance that Deathsaurus was interested in him as more than just a pleasure dispenser. 

But Deathsaurus was tired from the powerful overload he’d only had once Tarn was thoroughly satisfied—the overload when he had, as promised, screamed Damus’s name to the silent snowflakes outside. Afterwards, Tarn noticed that all four of Deathsaurus’s optics dimmed slowly as they kissed, as though the Warworld commander was struggling to stay awake until he was convinced that Tarn felt appropriately cared-for. Tarn invited his mate to recharge, which Deathsaurus did, cheek pillowed on Tarn’s tracked shoulder and wing spread over Tarn’s chest like an extra blanket. 

Tarn could not recharge so easily.

He’d never imagined that he’d end up like _this_ , sleeping in a makeshift berth with a former List mech in his arms. In his fantasies, Megatron had won the war and then he’d taken Tarn as his _conjunx endura_ , and when Tarn had brought Megatron here it had been in an act of complete submission, an invitation for Megatron to take all he had to offer and make him his own. In his dreams he would be in his sleeping quarters with Megatron, and they would be celebrating the triumph of peace through tyranny.

Tarn supposed it was all right that he would grieve, now, for a dream forever denied. Surely it was acceptable to feel somewhat saddened that the future he’d hoped for would never come to pass.

But for the first time, Tarn dared to ask himself what would really have happened if Megatron’s vision had come to pass. If Megatron had not only won the war, but succeeded in bending all of Cybertron to his will, so that even the _purpose_ of a weapon was no longer understood. There would be no fighting; but there could be no thinking of fighting, either. The capacity to dissent would be gone.

And Megatron would no longer have use for his Justice Division, because no one would be able to act against Megatron’s will. They could not even _imagine_ acting against Megatron’s will any longer.

What would have happened to Tarn then? Tarn suspected not a bonding ceremony with Megatron. Tarn and his team would have been the final sacrifices on the altar of Megatron’s glorious victory.

Tarn shivered, because a part of him still wanted that outcome, even if it meant his destruction. But another part, a part of himself that felt like a stranger, felt sickened. 

He glanced over at Deathsaurus and realized he could not uphold a Cause that meant the eventual destruction of free thought. Deathsaurus was _nothing_ if not an independent spark; and Tarn had almost crushed that spark in his role as Megatron’s instrument. 

Yes, Megatron had abandoned the Cause. Yes, it was now up to Tarn to uphold it. But Tarn realized he did not have to uphold it _alone_. He had Nickel, and his team, and the Warworld’s crew, and Deathsaurus.

And he did not have to uphold it _unchanged_.

The Cause was a living thing; and Megatron could be _wrong_. 

The thought felt heretical, but it also felt true. Tarn could not condone a Cause that would destroy the people he cared for. Deathsaurus had crossed the DJD specifically _to_ care for his people; to make sure their lives weren’t wasted against their will in Megatron’s war. And _that_ act was truer to Megatron’s initial vision than anything Tarn had done in his entire lifetime.

_My people—my Family—_ are _my Cause._

It was a frightening thought, as so many new and radical thoughts were, and it carried with it implications that Tarn was not certain he was ready to face. Not now; not tonight. But, perhaps, tomorrow, or the day after. In the meantime it was enough to realize that for the first time in longer than he could remember—and despite the fact that he was sleeping in a makeshift berth with a former List mech in his arms, or the fact that his one-time dream now smouldered like the ashes in his hearth—for the first time in a long time, Tarn felt content.

Outside the window a few scattered snowflakes tumbled gently through Messatine’s skies. And inside, for the first time since he’d first set foot on Messatine all those centuries ago, Tarn—Damus—felt warm.


End file.
